Words Whispered at Walled in Pond Meadow

I man Fort Dume Isolation on Battered Hill overlooking Walled In Pond in the Gladgrimshine Realm of Midguard. "The Crystal Castle" glimmers forbiddingly in the distance. Idle, idle idler! Solitude sings as a coy doe prances deep into the forest. Death knocks at the door as I stare at an open field of a thousand smiles...and The Walled In Pond Meadow enchants coos haunts.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Dak Blitz nonchalantly raises a joint to his purple lips, takes a drag. The chemicals diffuse into his blood stream. He exhales a burst of charmed blue smoke while perching on a black, cast iron bench. The sidewalk expanse upon which the bench rests is lightly rock strewn and sparkles underneath the shoes of passersby promenading along the treed parkway. Denizens intermittently call upon the victual vending carts parked on Crescent Boulevard on this summer evening languorously drifting into vernal twilight. Dak unbuttons his ebony suit and caresses his business emblem tie placing it at a more suitable hang after a day of enterprise. A breeze flows through the trees above rustling the leaves an apropos metaphorical picture of his mind. The enlivening and enchanting auricular modes are heightened amidst the mellow neuron glow burn.

Across Crescent Boulevard, an ivory ambulance laced with crimson lettering topped by silent, rotating, lurid lights pulls into one of the hospital center drives and stops. A navy blue clad operator jumps out of the passenger side and officiously clambers to the rear doors and opens them. Two more operators, also clad in navy blue, jump onto the pavement through the opened hatchway, turn, and mechanically withdraw a gurney with a woman strapped down and immobilized. The mollified, frenzied shrieks intertwined with dejected sobs reach the distant Dak as he takes another drag from the modest zig-zag papered joint, eyes afire with leisurely electric intensity. His focus shifts then, driven by a cosmic narrative force, to the early crescent moon casting a lambent silver glow and hanging like a pendulum blade ensconced in the womb of the incipiently dimming azure expanse.

The ambulance operators robotically escort the screaming, crestfallen, irate, and hysterical woman through the automatic glass doors reflecting the quotidian prosaic park scene into the bowels of the bio-hazard receptacle adorned halls of the hospital complex.

Dr. Windglow, a severe glare to his face adorned with gentle eyes, enters the stall of the woman three months pregnant now that she appears to have regained some semblance of equanimity after her tumultuous entry. Her arms and legs are still strapped to the gurney as she looks up with a vehement expression on her face with distant fogged over eyes at the approaching doctor.

"Ms. Calloway," the doctor chimes with grave, measured calm, "now that you have calmed somewhat, I wanted to remind you that birthing more than one child in our world today is no longer permissible for obvious, pragmatic reasons. The old regime recklessly brought the current situation about with it's policies of egregious, unmitigated economic growth and the resultant explosion in population. In order to rectify this, I am compelled to operate and carry out the new policy of involuntary tubal ligation when the birthing limit of one child has been exceeded - as it has in your case."

The expression on Ms. Calloway's face persists. Her eyes fade, falling into a subjective abyss, then alight anew once the words hit bottom, blazing with the same intensity as during her abrasive entry into the hospital. She expectorates at the doctor standing just out of range.

"Ms. Calloway," Dr. Windglow continues, mindful of the action, and instinctively stepping closer, "your maternal instincts are right where they should be. However, when large scale technological advancement renders these drives into something resembling a cancerous disease when left unchecked, action must be taken. I think you can come to an understanding of this and you must remember that the child that you have already birthed still needs you."

The woman glares rapiers at the doctor and attempts to free herself from her restraints and enters into an uncontrolled, spasmodic frenzy. Dr. Windglow steps out of the room calling upon sedation personnel to prepare Ms. Calloway for a tubal ligation procedure and departs into the endless labyrinthine halls, lit from the gloomy photons ejected by phosphorescent bulbs, to a new destination to attend another patient.

An obstetric nurse beckons his attention as he arrives, "Doctor, the patient, Mrs. Carmen, has successfully given birth to a newborn that is awaiting euthanasia. The injection has been readied and awaits your hand."

Dr. Windglow steps into the birthing room, the floor still fresh with drops of blood and other amniotic fluid, and his eyes fall upon the placid face of an exhausted but alert woman. She speaks to the doctor in a quiet, barely audible voice, "The baby was an accident. My husband convinced me to have an illegal tubal reversal surgery. I was too weak to come in to have an abortion as I rightly should have when I was pregnant. He compelled me to hide the pregnancy from the public eye by isolating me in the house. The entire neighborhood knows we already have one child. He wanted to pass it off as an adoption through black market paperwork. He is part of the revolt against the new birthing directives. Right before I started to go into labor I opened the gun safe in our house and took out a pistol and called my brother. He is much more in tune with the necessities of the new regime. I urged him bring me to the hospital while threatening my husband to stay out of the away at gun point. He will just have to understand when I return home. This is just something I had to do. I was not ready to secretly rear an illegal child with the world as it is today."

The doctor casts a pensive, sympathetic expression her way and in an equally, low and quiet manner replies, "You did the right thing Mrs. Carmen," and exits the room readying himself for the euthanasia procedure. As he approaches the operation room, he can hear the distant cries of the baby emanating from a room down the hall. When he enters, a nurse, only eyes visible above a surgical mask, hands him a pair of sky blue silicon gloves amidst the clamor. The doctor applies the gloves to his hands and fingers a mask from a container on the wall amidst the onslaught of wails from the doomed, symbolically cancerous new born. He approaches the table where the tiny bright red newborn is squirming and crying with reckless abandon. He picks up the needled syringe and wields the tool while the nurse gently and firmly grips the baby's arm to assist the doctor in administering the stilling, righteous injection.

Dr. Windglow, adroitly inserts the needle with a noticeable change in the the pitch of cries from the newborn knowing that the initial shock of the birth has yet to subside and applies pressure to the piston. Within a few moments of removing the needle the room is quieted. The sounds of the doctor's shoes contacting the linoleum floor is the only thing that can be heard as he paces to dispose of the needled device and at the same time peremptorily speaks to the assisting nurse, "Please transport this cadaver to the cremation facility now."

He then removes his mask and gloves, properly disposing of them in their designated bio-hazard containers, and walks out of the room towards the lounge for a much needed reprieve, some coffee, and a few moments to himself. Dr. Windglow finds himself in the center of the room, coffee in hand, staring at a painting called, The Lugubrious Game, depicting scores of horrified people evading rampaging skeletons at the bottom of a gravity well pit and a sky strewn with shimmering stars.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

I climbed onto a tree bough leaning magnanimously over Walled In Pond. A
reflection of boughs rippled beneath me on the gently shimmering liquid crystal
surface, cast silent dark glad grim black, against the reflected grey sky
light. I stood listening to the looming, behemoth, dull static of machines
in the distance. Treading the boardwalk along the pond, a capricious brown bird flew into a still, evergreen fir cooly. And then another
struck, aggressively joyous, cooly sliding into the boughs. Nothing could possibly have been wrong with that then enchanted fir, and
perhaps, everything was wrong with that heart wood fir. Later, I approached the end of the
Raptor Woods Trail, a sign post manifesting glaringly lurid through the fog. It beckoned, signaling the border of dimensions, a portal between worlds. And I
stepped out of the warp channel of the leaf laden path past the psionic gateway reconfigured, everything dawning a-gnu...

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Have you ever heard of some of the greatest people to live that
could
not record any of it because they were not writers or what they had
written was destroyed and not widely distributed? I mean what affect do
they inflict on the populous by existing. If one believes in - The
Force - someone may have Overman beckoning powers to inflict themselves,
essentially programming, the Brahma Programmatic Core quietly,
silently by sheer autopilot will.

Metaphysical Ontology of Evil

Pay the daemons of the mind important homage fore they have something
important to say. This does not mean pick up an axe and murder someone
through the head. Unless of course the voices tell you to and for some
reason or another they seduce you to these deeds. Desolation and
warrior a-hunt moods. Multifarious murder and dangerous destruction
raining down from Hollywood glow screens in epic proportion as the ashes
of the mind get soggy in the drizzle of prosaic over-population
doldrums of state enforced fascism. The voices bidding one commit an
axe murder is a contingency insertion probe derived from a gravitized
pole of force named evil. That is funny. My metaphysical ontology
involves the metaphysical probe core for evil.

I have been reading an accumulating number of Nietzsche's aphorisms lately and stumbled upon the overman in Zarathustra - The New Idol. "Where the state ends
- look there, my brothers! Do you not see it, the rainbow and the
bridges of the overman?" I turned away and could not believe something
so unexpected and empty of an emotion after all of the reverence I had
had from earlier readings flowing through my mind forcing this
re-encounter with him who I consider as one of my teachers. There was
so much more to see in actually opening the books. I was crushed
because I did not see...

Monday, November 11, 2013

“If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know a man, don't
bother analyzing his ways of being silent, of talking, of weeping, of
seeing how much he is moved by noble ideas; you will get better results
if you just watch him laugh. If he laughs well, he's a good man.”

~Dostoyevsky

I have a joke machine automatic in my head that tells jokes and I have laughter problems because I hate to laugh at times but can't help myself because I am such a good laughter. I mean what I meant to say is that I smuggled the ludicrous machine probe from Aldebaran ten years ago through the ether when I lived in Seattle and laughed myself to silly death dictum come through the heart of the night sporadically for a while during the passing of the winter dark star amidst psychotic nirvanic delirium. Ever since then laughs sneak up on me from always unbeknownst angles and regions. I have battles and wars with laughter. And the more I think about this quote the more confused I become about laughing because the sound is elusive and I second, third, and forth guess myself. Sometimes I sound like I am making an animal noise out in the woods when I laugh there. Sometimes I sound like a creature that is in desperate need of being shot as a wounded horse is put down. I always laugh at the height of my mental anguish as if the treacherous sadistic peak had then been cleared and I have surmounted gravity's darkness. I am freer and more genuine in my laughter when alone and by myself in solitude. Laughter seems to be associated more with charm than beauty as beauty is the realm of tears. Is that laughing well? I don't know...

A few came forth
- bravely - perhaps wrongly - and saw a shimmering Dathem Genthen
Dorphin Spreker lit lighted - me, a nihilistickism - in front a their
faces glowing. In other words, I am a tail pipe sucker, black burn face
off, whoop whoop whoop, gas mask masked organic toxicity living in
Pleasantville at 70 degrees farenheit. Trith and bitty
frowned-fawned-acknowledgeded this undertaking after I turned away from
their talismans and scarabs for bearing themselves so nakedly. Boo!
Boo! Boo who hoo. Speaketh the owl. Cry tear nast nesty naizzy crizzy
crazzy crazy! And then, the surreal astral luminary, or maybe star
essence, scorched my mind again leading to my quarantine in Awol Risk
Bedlam Ward or simply a hospitalization. Or rather, what I like to call
my witch trials due to the absolute absurd rationality - sanely sane be
my motto - of the Poison Toothed Heads, or rather psychiatrists, who
thought me to be wrong, abnormal, sick, incapable to handle my own
affairs, as I screamed my scorched head off at them, incipient inferno,
which of course is only acceptable when one is locked down in captivity,
the Awol Resort of sorts, like a wild beast... or something...

The
warm machine, humanistic age guardian, normalizing the decadent,
cancerous, grey concrete metal machine sludge of a civilization, will
cover every reach of this place with an alloy platform - one of these
days - and hence my toxicity and gaskmaskedness and superstitiousic
sniffing of acid rain pine needles and sipping of the Hermaphroditic
Gaea Which Whore Goddess's Bandit Clown Oil hybird caw-cawk-tail brew.
Crazzy crazy hazy hazzy be I?! A witch trial I say, a witch trial. The
Gaea Which Whore Goddess told me so.

Anyhow, I have
strayed from the point, which I can't help doing as all people ever do
is talk like machine robots - all set, allright, ok - and interrogate
tactful-lessly about ones origins and what ones business is, as if one
always needed an excuse or reason to be sitting there under the Big
Brother eye - in utter solemn seriousness. And for a change of pace,
yap and yip and yep about what kind of sprocket they are and where they
are plugged into the machine grid, girl aphrodesiatic, hynotic,
deprivationalation, toxic tonic narcotic, and the grand hypnotic
spectacle Sport, once they have properly scrutinized each others
mechness. And to dash interaction with a finishing stroke, cast, throw,
burp a charming little Americanic grunt laugh, that sounds like, what I
call a Junker Call, that is, I guess, supposed to be a charm or
charming?

And the reason I presume the sun star
surreal astral celestial luminary scorched my mind out was due to my
inability to swallow the machine protocol grid which made me so sick
that I started spewing up anihilitic toxic slice-ic dice-ic wordic
sludge due to the machine griddings and sprockets within me unable to
engage, establish, and sustain a slavery/worker lifetime protocol
programatic. And thus I deem these novice, green neophyte attempts at
poetizing: my Poet-tick try-sings, like songs - directed at Nobody and
No-one - my two grandest of companions.

I also I
didn't want to disappoint the humanic mech bots who spoke to me, off
hand, ironically and randomly, about what my task was to be, and, that
really it was their machine nature that prompted them to think I was a
poet or maybe rather a creative fraudulent poser. And by the way, who
needs another poetry book today by some toxic hurling pen scribbler with
greatness breaking his spine in two that some dud will read and
propagate dudiness all the world over. Then I spoke with Nobody and
No-one, and my auotpilot will - mechanistic - gridded this writing, and
my two ass-os-e-ats reminded me how much I like little protocol humanic
droids running around and how junked out junker sludge was the ignition
spawnic hole to fate-ic anihiliticus tread-ic poetic chant-ic rants and
thus the coalescence of this prance-ic dance-ic muse-ic song. I do feel
like Farenheit 451-ing or Alexandria-ing the place half the time. Half the time...Incipient confliction...

Friday, November 8, 2013

I think I fell in love with the woman who gave a talk at Yale
University - Kathleen Higgins. Her aplomb was amazing. Her tone and
references charming - her weapon tool wielded firmly, quietly, surely. She mentioned Gay Science (92) an aphorism concerning the war between prose and poetry, the demure goddess, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, dear to my heart, as well as The Stillest Hour from Zarathustra another one dear. These two mentions were uncanny.
In my delusional world of ether blazing, Celest, or now, Celesta, has
now been graced by another. I cannot write more than this now.
Experience is too close in happening and when a dramatically immediate,
comically inculcated, lurid lucidity happens to me, one should not be
writing when this is occurring. That is how phantoms are spawned into
existence. And I can never bring back what was said, felt, experienced
because it was a kiss from the desiring-machine, or a god who is dead,
for those less acquainted, not some perverted, Christian-papal, french deep
throating... ..!.. .. _-."::'' {[Syncamuroau...

Sunday, August 11, 2013

The monster vortex juggernaut
Arrived the other day
And ran over my mind
Cast off marooned in a star field
Instantly all pardoned
I try not to step on the flowers
When I walk in the woods
Large battle machines maraud
Through my dreams
The mechanical core has not arrived
Here on earth
Foolish plans
Marred by the black smoke
Of pollution factory tower
Acorns waiting in earnest to sprout
In toxic chemical laden soil
Bio-hazards invading metal shard platforms
Twisting minds to breaking points
Consumed by the depths -
Warning: crisis
The hypnotic r]V[ilred ----
With relish. .. .

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

I am one of those people who used to dream about somehow acquiring a
nuclear weapon and detonating the device in the heart of the Citadel,
or, The Fat Apple, or New York City. York. What a terrible word to
name the preeminent city of a country that isn't Enlgand. It's like
giving England a blow job every time the name is uttered. I can't
understand how after the revolutionary war took place American's still
retained the nomenclature of their bygone, abusive, and belligerent
fatherland. I also remember some school shooting or another occurring
during high school and the next day I went into class relishing,
brooding, sexualizing the thoughts of what a bloody massacre would be
like in my Western Civilization class.

When I was
younger I used to roam the construction sites of new homes that came to
occupy the field where the kids of the neighborhood used to lark and
romp. I did this with my best friend Timmy. On the rainy day that I
arrived riding in the ugly family golden boat of a Chevrolet into the
drive of my families new home in Touchstone Estates, there was Timmy
with a Tonka Truck digging foundations for some massive plan in the
muddy expanse of the front yard which had not yet been outfitted with
the abomination of America: the grass turf surface. That is as far as
memory permits in that event, but, as the story goes we became
inseparable best friends. Before the houses were planned and built we
roamed the grassy open field over turning any boards or tree limbs in
search of snakes. One day we became quite industrious and taped a
collapsed box together and went foraging. We collected at least a dozen
snakes that day and the only thing that stands out in my mind is how
after we put the snakes in the box the snakes would stick to the exposed
surfaces of tape and writhe and stretch their skin grotesquely trying
to free themselves from their capture. We also used to be delighted to
find mouse bones on the ground that the owls excreted and set booby
traps with string to trip up anyone who wasn't supposed to be in the
field.

After the field was cleared in order to develop
the land into an extension of our neighborhood, Timmy and I would walk
into the houses and cut the wires of the brand new furnaces that were
being installed. We would launch glass bottles as far as we could into
the air and watch them shatter into pieces as they hit pavement. We
wrote our names into newly poured cement of garage floors. After this
incident the police investigated and showed up at both of our houses
attempting to right the wrong that had been perpetrated with a finger
shaking and a warning as if this would do the trick on a couple of
wayward young boys. One summer, when there were dirt piles all over the
place due to the digging of ditches for pipes, every kid in the
neighborhood by the hand of some mysterious force gathered in the
construction zone and a war ensued. Factions formed and the endless
supply of dirt clods gave everyone all the ammo they would need to
perpetrate a pegging on the enemy. With the ample supply of nails that
we found in the houses being constructed, by night we furtively propped
them up against tires with the points aimed directly into the rubber so
that when the cars were driven in reverse a puncture would occur.

I
guess it is no wonder then that I would wake up in my high school class
one day dreaming about massacring everyone there. And I did this
without a conscience, without a second thought, without remorse, in cold
blood and so matter of fact that I considered it a natural part of
existence. Mind you, this was a single morning not a prolonged
protracted brooding that came and went like the passing of the sun. It
was not until much later after the Trade Center Towers were destroyed, a
number of years in fact, during which the time I began to lapse into my
longest bout of sustained insanity and a ferocious, fervent daily,
moment to moment desire to smuggle a nuclear device into The Greatest
City ever constructed and to detonate it. Every time I thought of this
it was like an a mentally driven emotional orgasm. Constantly, day in
and day out. I studied physics in college and had no idea how to write
anything the years directly following my time at a learning institution
because I was so immersed in calculations and mathematical equations and
physical laws that my mind simply did not operate on a word basis.
Nevertheless, I was provoked at the time to take up the pen and begin to
write a terribly abortive play which I was to send to my physics
adviser in college who ran a one act play contest. The only thing I
remember from the that spiteful day when the towers exploded was passing
by my grey haired physics professor - who was an ex-air force tech
operator and favored Kant over Nietzsche at a school where Nietzsche was
labeled as an adolescent philosopher which is a childish and immature
perspective given Nietzsche will have more fame and life after death
than all of those lousy professors combined and so much more - after the
news had hit and catching him in a worried frenzy of anxiety mumbling
something or another to me as he passed. For all he knew it was WWIII
beginning. I don't think that would have phased me a bit. I went to
the student center and quietly ate my lunch and watched the pictures of
the burning toppling towers on television without a single emotion.
When there are 7 billion people on this earth, what is the death of two
thousand people when the daily world death rate is over one hundred
thousand souls? Governmental instigation of atrocities... Who wants to
be involved with their games anyway?

I feel like a
technologically advanced Maldoror. I am reminded of an introductory
quote to Demons by Dostoevsky after writing this today.

"Now
a large herd of swine was feeding there on the hillside; and they
begged him to let them enter these. So he gave them leave. Then the
demons came out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd rushed
down the steep bank into the lake and were drowned.

When
the herdsman saw what had happened they fled, and told it in the city
and in the country. Then people went out to see what had happened, and
they came to Jesus, and found the man from whom the demons had gone,
sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind; and they
were afraid. And those who had seen it told them how he who had been
possessed with demons was healed." Luke 8:32-36.

It is
the summer solstice today. I do not claim to be healed. Global
warming lurks ever present breathing down the nape of the world. Love,
empathy, care never seemed so non-existent today. I felt lonely driving
to the store. Not from lack of people attention but from lack of
schizo divinity incarnations. There is no reason to care. As the sun
blistered death at its yearly zenith a soothing placidity and almost joy
overcame me and I thought of Emerson and his essay compensation sitting
watching a pretty girl pass me by:

The wings of Time are black and white,
Pied with morning and with night.
Mountain tall and ocean deep
Trembling balance duly keep.
In changing moon, in tidal wave,
Glows the feud of Want and Have.
Gauge of more and less through space
Electric star and pencil plays.
The lonely Earth amid the balls
That hurry through the eternal halls,
A makeweight flying to the void,
Supplemental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoots across the neutral Dark.

Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm.
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts;
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo! it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.

I heard a tune neon blue
Lighting the firmament
Filling the void space
With the hallowed conscious moment
I wake existence
And This perpetuates itself
Stars glow on and the mystery deepens
Casting a listening ear to the galaxy
Radio-head receiving signals galactic
Told what is necessary to be told
Dancing with the chemicals
Megaphone injection manifold of the brain
Fragment after piece after shard
Impressions of moment after moment
Electronically recorded and registered
In void space 9
Forming the Brahma Programmatic
Collective psyche grid
Displayed on stage
To the Galactic Over-mind

Yeah to all who give a damn. I talk to god all damn day long every
day on the neuron phone. So what?! For something to have a real impact
something more is needed. Some dire necessity. Some omen. Some
directive to move mountains. A bizarre psychological field that
descends upon all like a shadow emanating from the vessel's essence
being. Some genius form of art exposed to the masses that was
excessively coercive-hypnotic media. Aliens spacecraft operating in
concert with a mysterious figure in a public venue. God doesn't like to
get involved. He likes to sit and blabber in your head, then you die.
Fuck God!!! When alone, God I seek.